Nomance

by T J Price

  From time to time, Juliet, who was listening, but pretending not to, noticed Liam glancing over towards Justin. That poor devil was busy emptying little packets of salted snacks onto small, dainty dishes. Perhaps Liam felt sorry for him. More likely though, his emotion was one of envy. Liam did not want to hear about Elspeth’s “found” crisp packets. Those foil bags, whose ostensible function, once, had been to contain deep fried slivers of potato to be consumed between meals, were now lacerating his artistic sensibilities, smothering his own work under a layer of actual garbage. Juliet wondered whether she ought go over, change the course of the conversation and relieve his distress a little. But she held back when it dawned on her that Phoebe was making a play for the boy, despite having arrived with Justin. Okay, Phoebe was very much going the wrong way about it. Juliet could all too readily imagine what Liam thought about Elspeth Williams’ “found” crisp packets. Still, with any luck, Phoebe would work that out by herself and leave the poor mutt in peace.

  More people were arriving. Juliet and Philip got them set up with drinks. Soon, that critical mass was achieved which differentiated a party from a collection of mere individuals, and at that point, and not a moment before, Helena Hursborg arrived.

  She was wearing a dark business suit and looked and acted just like a middle-aged member of some local government interdepartmental committee. Juliet walked with her to the dining table where the buffet was laid out. Helena had been far too busy all day to eat – she seemed to attend meetings more often than she painted.

  ‘Do you like sushi?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Love it.’

  ‘We ordered it from Ginko’s.’

  ‘I adore Ginko’s.’ Helena inspected Phoebe’s hideous candelabra for a moment, and lowering a voice a little, asked, ‘How is she?’

  Juliet checked to see that Phoebe wasn’t within range. ‘The latest round of therapy seems to have worked,’ she said in a near whisper.

  ‘I warned her,’ Helena said, her rather deep voice adding to her solemnity. ‘Africa – all those boils.’

  ‘But they stuck together at the time, didn’t they? That’s what I find so odd. It was only months after they came back to Britain before she and Rob split up.’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure the breakdown was about Rob. I sense it was because she simply can’t make any headway as a working sculptor.’

  ‘But she won a major commission not so long back.’

  ‘Really?’ Helena couldn’t have looked more surprised if Juliet had told her Phoebe had won a pair a stuffed giraffe. ‘I didn’t know that. Who was it from?’

  ‘Her parents.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘They asked for a piece to stand in the forecourt of the family’s gas fire factory in Portugal.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Helena began to look over the sushi. ‘Did you see it, the piece?’

  ‘Just photographs. It’s a spine type thing, with sharp plates of metal instead of ribs.’

  Helena paused to weigh this information and murmured her conclusion, ‘As if doing twelve hours in a gas fire factory weren’t bad enough.’

  Nine: The Art of Exhibition

  Carla had shut Romance early that day, unable to face any of her customers.

  It seemed like they all knew something she didn’t. Like she had been experimented on and presented a danger to their health.

  But what about her health? She was supposed to pick up another batch of the tablets that Gerald had prescribed for her. However, when she had taken the last one at dinner time, (after too many jars of comforting chilly pickle) she had noticed it had a strange aftertaste. Somehow this fact had become fixed in her mind and, as the afternoon wore on, she had come to realise that Gerald was a mad doctor and he was using her as a guineapig in a grotesque medical trial.

  Carla had never felt so alone. Gerald was mad, Gwynne had left home, her customers were all against her, and Sharon was running a bar in Cyprus.

  Who else could she turn to?

  It was nine in the evening before Carla found Juliet and Philip’s house.

  She closed her umbrella and let it drop beside the steps, which led up to a large, stuccoed terraced villa, typical of those lining the squares off Ladbroke Grove. But having thus safely disposed of her umbrella, she seemed to run out of ideas. All she could do was stand and stare at the door.

  It swept open and two men appeared. They gave an immediate impression of youth that did not, however, stand up to closer inspection. They looked back at her with amused and contemptuous interest. She was trying to differentiate between them. It was quite amazing – they were almost identical. Both sported glossy tans and had close-cropped, bleached hair and a pampered, manicured look. They grinned at her now, producing shocking wrinkles around the eyes, and then they stood aside, bowed and flourished in unison. ‘Greetings.’

  Carla walked in.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She turned to ask them where Juliet and Philip were, but they were already walking away, voices raised in merry excitement as they headed off into the night.

  Carla turned back, climbed the steep staircase and suddenly found she had stumbled into a crowded room. She tried to flee, but the door had abruptly disappeared and she wove hopelessly though the dense flock of bodies for a while. Then she had to stop. Her head was spinning.

  A tall, slim man, not youthfully dressed, although he looked younger than the fairies she had met outside, handed her a glass of wine and asked, ‘Aren’t you Lynne’s sister?’

  ‘No, I’m Gwynne’s sister.’

  ‘Gwynne?’ The man exclaimed, delighted to hear the name. ‘I haven’t seen the old reprobate in two years.’ He gave Carla a fond smile. ‘I never knew he had a baby sister.’ Carla stared at him and did not reply. His smile faltered a little, then, as in a dream, she heard him say, ‘Anyway, two years, eh? A long time. But of course, it’s so easy to lose touch with these jet-setting foreign correspondents. And stepping on that land mine hasn’t slowed him down one bit, has it? By the way, where is he now?’

  Carla responded in a slow, even voice, ‘Who? Gwynne?’

  ‘Hmm, Gwynne.’

  ‘As far as I know he’s still working at the EasyHomes DIY Superstore. But he’s living with that Charmaine, so I wouldn’t know for sure.’

  ‘The EasyHomes Superstone?’ The man said, his smile faltering once again. ‘Is he covering consumer issues now, or something?’

  ‘No, he’s an assistant in the Timber and Gardening Department. Unless his new band’s been signed up for a recording contract. I expect he’d have to leave if he started making albums.’

  Carla couldn’t help noticing how this simple statement stunned the guy. It was then she began to wonder how the hell this bloke in Ladbroke Grove happened to know Gwynne. Her brother’s social horizons seemed to have expanded even beyond Hammersmith. Perhaps he was a pop star now, after all.

  That settled it, she was never going to turn the radio on again.

  ‘Strange, I brought a box of screws and some shelving only last week,’ the man said at last.

  Carla stared at him. ‘That’s interesting.’

  He winced. ‘Well, what I meant is, I went to the EasyHomes DIY place recently and, er, I didn’t see him there.’

  ‘You wouldn’t though, would you? Like I say, he works in Timber and Gardening, not Shelving and Screws.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it then. Timber and Gardening.’ He was looking unhappy now. ‘Trouble is, we don’t have a garden as such.’

  Carla was unable to conceal her disgust. ‘The oldest excuse in the book.’

  ‘But we do go to the odd concert occasionally,’ he added, by way of an apology. ‘You say Gwynne’s in a band? So then, there’s a chance we may bump into each other after all. That would be nice.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I believe he used to be in a band before.’

  ‘He was in a band before, yes.’

  ‘Is this a new one, or a revival of the original?’

  ‘No. This lot wor
k in the warehouse too.’

  ‘Do they? Crikey. A new band then . . . what kind of music do they play? ’Eighties classics I expect.’

  ‘No. I think it’s called Psycho House.’

  The man gaped at Carla. He kept on doing that, didn’t he? Just what was the matter with this drip? She might be disorientated by drugs, but that wouldn’t stop her getting aggravated by a drip.

  She snapped at him, ‘It’s just a racket though! No one will ever buy it, even though they’re called The Dead Dianas. I told him, a great name on its own isn’t enough.’

  ‘No, I daresay it isn’t.’ The fellow murmured, just as if (of all things!) he was sorry that Gwynne would continue to be a miserable failure. That was bad enough, but what he did now was try and talk up the swine! ‘You know though, Carla, thinking about it, playing in a Psycho House band at his age, and with only one leg . . . well, it’s an example to us all. Gwynne was always young at heart, triple bypass or no.’

  ‘Only one leg?’ Carla was affronted. ‘He’s got more than that!’

  The man was sympathetic. ‘No, he hasn’t, dear. It was in all the papers.’

  ‘I don’t read the papers,’ Carla assured him, like her life depended on it. However, she was already wondering how long it would be before Gwynne was on the telly too. Might there be no escape?

  ‘Well, I did hear he was in denial. Which, in a way, is quite an achievement in itself,’ the man reflected. ‘Still, lets forget I mentioned it. In any case, he’s in a Psycho House band now, so it sounds like it hasn’t stopped him living life to the full. And did you say he’s settled down with someone? That’s just brilliant. At long last, eh? Charmaine you say? You know, I’ve never thought of that as a boy’s name.’

  Carla finally lost patience with these imbecilities. ‘Are you on drugs too?’

  It was a simple enough question and yet the guy didn’t seem to have an answer. That’s how far gone he was. Carla gave him a dirty look and knocked her wine back in one. She needed it.

  When she looked again, the weird, jumpy geezer was gone.

  She turned a full circle, but there was no sight of him. Troubled, she examined her surroundings again and began to wonder whether she had come to the right address. It was a strange place for anyone to live in. Bare wooden boards and odd furnishings, many in buffed steel, made it in some ways reminiscent of Gerald Lytton’s fancy clinic.

  The thought of the clinic gave Carla a queasy sensation. She shut her eyes for a moment and waited for her stomach to settle down. When she opened them again, she found a small, frail woman with huge glistening eyes standing in front of her.

  Carla looked the greasy pixie up and down, but without comprehension.

  It spoke, ‘Hi, I’m Tamsin. Feeling alright, dear?’

  Carla handed Tamsin the empty wine glass. ‘Just so tired, really. I can’t seem to sleep nights. I’d like to complain, but I’m scared he’ll get angry and, you know, do stuff.’

  Tamsin gave her a “knowing woman of the world” look. Carla knew this look well. It was affected by many of her customers in Kew. ‘It’s your neighbours is it?’ Tamsin commiserated. ‘They can be such noisy bastards, can’t they?’

  Carla frowned. ‘I have fabulous neighbours. Golden, they are. They’ve both got Alzheimer’s and I never hear a peep out of them. No, it’s the doctor we have to worry about. He has to be stopped and stopped soon, before he ruins more lives.’

  ‘The doctor? My God, what did he do?’

  ‘Artificially inseminated me.’

  At that, Tamsin’s “knowing woman of the world” hit a brick wall.

  Smiling with grim satisfaction, Carla went on, ‘I wouldn’t worry so much if it was my baby I’m carrying, but it’s somebody else’s and the real parents don’t know what’s going on. That’s why I came here, to warn them. See, they can formally adopt it straight away, before he aborts it and chops it up for stem-cell research . . . you aren’t the real mother, are you?’

  Tamsin, having given this some deliberation, it seemed, said, ‘No, I can’t be the mother. Twisted tubes, you see.’

  ‘Twisted tubes? You don’t know how lucky you are.’

  Tamsin’s eyes grew wide. Then they grew narrow. She looked down into the empty glass in her hand and then giving Carla an elvish smile, she asked, ‘Would you like more wine, dear?’

  Carla nodded and Tamsin fluttered off.

  But instead of wine, she returned with a great lanky beast, almost as big as the ugly geezer with the bongos. Carla stared up into the ghoul’s cold, but marvelling eyes, and felt her insides undulating – always the first sign of an agonising stomachache. Either that, or it was the onset of labour.

  ‘Sweetheart, I hear you want to find parents for the child you’re carrying.’ This apparition, huge and threatening, with its ravaged and hectic face, had a beautifully pure and crystalline voice.

  ‘Well, not any old parents,’ Carla said, trying to sound calm. ‘They have to be the right ones.’

  ‘Of course. But isn’t it a bit soon to put it up for adoption?’

  Carla considered this. ‘Depends how much other people are willing to offer. You don’t want a baby, do you?’

  ‘A baby? Me?’ The bogey looked flummoxed for a moment. ‘No thanks. I’m blessed with a complete absence of maternal instinct, dear.’

  ‘Fair enough. But if you change your mind in the years to come, I can give you a piece of advice – don’t ever go to Doctor Gerald Lytton.’

  ‘Doctor Lytton? Who’s that?’

  ‘Phoebe, dear,’ Tamsin said, ‘I think that’s the guy who assaulted her.’

  ‘He didn’t assault me,’ Carla interjected, ever a stickler for detail. ‘He explained what he wanted to do from the very beginning, when we met in Cyprus.’

  ‘Ah, a holiday fling,’ Phoebe said, adding with impressive authority, ‘a lot of bad shit can go down on holiday.’

  ‘Sure, I was there on holiday,’ Carla snapped, ‘but that’s beside the point. I’m a working girl and there was no question of my doing it for free.’

  Phoebe’s manner became righteous. ‘A working girl? Well, that’s great, dear. I really mean that. You know, I totally support full legalisation for working women. Like all our sisters, I think working women get a raw deal.’

  ‘I got a raw deal, all right. Five thousand pounds – not a penny more. He was adamant.’

  ‘Five thousand?’ Phoebe’s face dropped. She sounded less righteous and more jealous. ‘Well, if he insisted on unprotected penetration,’ she allowed, ‘there’s a chance of AIDS, isn’t there? So – fair enough.’

  ‘Unprotected?’ Carla said, disgusted. ‘Do you think I’d have stood for that? He wore rubber gloves.’

  Phoebe leaned back. ‘But as I understand it, he made you pregnant.’

  ‘Getting pregnant was part of the deal.’

  ‘What?’ Phoebe was outraged. ‘Some men have the most bizarre fantasies . . . ’

  Tamsin shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no, Phoebe, you don’t understand. She’s talking about artificial insemination and a mad doctor.’

  Carla scowled in disgust. ‘What the fuck else did you think I was talking about?’ But her annoyance petered out. She had begun to feel dizzy. Her stomach was churning.

  Tamsin looked concerned, ‘Are you alright, dearie?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I am.’

  Phoebe got excited. ‘When is your baby due, darling? Not now?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Carla snapped. ‘It’s not my baby – it belongs to Juliet Westhrop.’

  ‘Who?’ Phoebe hooted.

  ‘Juliet Westhrop.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh Christ, is this the nut house or something?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Phoebe said with diabolic avidity. ‘Just tell me one more time whose baby it is and then I promise we shan’t ever refer to it again.’

  Carla answered in a cold voice. ‘You tell me something first. Who lives here?’

 
Tamsin’s eyes grew wide and fearful, and she put her hand on Phoebe’s arm as if to restrain her.

  ‘Juliet Westhrop,’ Phoebe said in a hushed tone of expectancy.

  ‘There’s your answer, then. It’s her baby.’

  At this Phoebe quivered like a huge coiled spring. Tamsin withdrew her hand in trepidation as the fiend scanned the crowd. She soon spotted her target.

  ‘Juliet, darling,’ she hollered across the room with boundless mirth, ‘come over and meet Carla. Guess what? She’s having your baby!’

  A deathly silence descended upon the room.

  Finally, Carla was able to set eyes on Juliet Westhrop. She was the one whose face, one of a refined, metropolitan beauty, sagged now and went grey, like an old pair of Y fronts.

  Tamsin whispered, ‘Oh, Phoebe!’

  Hearing that, Carla thought to herself: this Phoebe makes the same mistake over and over again.

  And indeed, Carla could now enjoy the spectacle of Phoebe wither under the flames of contrition. It seemed to have dawned on her she’d made a faux pas. However, Carla’s pleasure soon dimmed when she noticed everyone in the room was staring at her reproachfully. It seemed she was being singled out for interrupting them in the middle of a crucial sentence, and not Phoebe.

  The jumpy geezer, that drug-addict Carla had spoken to first and who knew Gwynne, stepped forward out of the crowd and declaimed. ‘But that’s Gwynne’s sister!’

  There was a general exhalation. Gwynne, must have been a tried and tested source of needless alarm. And who was to say her sister would be any different?

  But then a tall, lugubrious geezer wearing an old man’s coat piped up, ‘What are you talking about? Gwynne hasn’t got a sister!’

  There was a general murmur of mystification.

  ‘It was only a joke,’ Phoebe said, appealing forlornly to Juliet. ‘Gwynne’s set us up. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘I happen to know that he’s dead.’ This declaration was intoned by a late middle-aged woman in a grey suit who, going by her demeanor, appeared to be a member of the Government. ‘It happened last night. Didn’t anyone else know?’